When I moved from Philadelphia to Northern California almost fifteen years ago, newly married and just graduated from university, I had no idea that my relationship with Judaism would dramatically change.  After all, I was raised in a kosher, conservative home; sang in my synagogue choir; became confirmed and bat mitzvahed in a most traditional way.  I even married a “nice Jewish boy”; a lawyer-to-be, no less.

 

So, how did I fall off the “Jewish wagon?”  What happened to me?  Well, life did.

 

I started working in San Francisco, surrounded by a host of other 22-year olds who together thought we owned the world.  We sweated out our 70 to 80-hour weeks and had little time to think about eating a meal, much less practice our given religions.  Sure, I would attend High Holiday services and travel back East for Passover.  I would even attend a Bar or Bat Mizvah here and there.  But, something was starting to give. I did not recognize it at the time, but I was headed down the proverbial slippery slope.

 

It was subtle.  So subtle that it took me a decade to see what was really happening.

 

A few years later, my husband and I moved to SoCal, a paradise of good weather and gorgeous people, but seemingly little religious tradition.  Everything seemed so new, too new.  For a preppy kid from the East Coast used to cobblestone streets and Betsy Ross’s house, it was like landing on Mars.  People went to the beach every day, not down the shore in just the summer.  They wore flip flops and khakis to work, not pantyhose and suits.  No one had a backyard – they scrimped and saved to get a “peek blue water ocean view” instead.  People even dressed in white after Labor Day – aliens, I tell you!  In December, it was 70 degrees.  The Jews I met seemed to attend only the first day’s morning service for Rosh Hashanah and then return to work.  It was bizarre.

 

I fought the culture as best I could.  I wore closed-toe shoes and skirt suits to work for a good while, but eventually became worn down by the perpetually sunny days; or was it the constant scowling faces of my laid-back co-workers?  What was I really fighting?  Why was I refusing to adapt?  It did not make sense.  So, one day, I tossed my umbrellas, winter coats and slickers and started behaving with a more lax attitude.

 

I thought through the scenarios.  Why shlep to the kosher market 35 minutes away, when I could get a perfectly good rotisserie chicken at Whole Foods in less than 10?  Why use two sets of dishes, when one was more efficient.  And, why attend the Conservative synagogue, when the Reform one would let us buy cheap High Holiday seats without membership.  I struggled year after year with the near absence of Hebrew chanting during those services, but one day I learned to just tune out the Rabbi’s English readings and pretend he was speaking in Hebrew.

 

And, after ten years of yelling at my husband to not put parmesan cheese on his meatballs and spaghetti (or at least to use a paper plate), I found myself not caring about it; not worrying about it at all.  Did my move to California make me do this?  Was I becoming lazy?   Was I losing faith in my religion?

 

The answer to all three questions was “yes.”

 

I had become a Jew I didn’t recognize.  I felt embarrassed if things were too Jewish-y.  This wasn’t New York or Philadelphia, after all.  I quit using Yiddish expressions.  I stopped playing Jewish geography with new friends.  Sure, I could still belt out the prayers during the holidays, but I kept that quiet.

 

I told myself that I would learn to like the new Jewish “me.”  It would be ok.  There were other, more important, things to worry about.  I had changed and nothing and no one could change me back. 

 

And then 9/11 happened. 

 

Like most people in this country, I was devastated.  My girlfriend Dawn called my house before 7am to tell me what happened.  She knew we didn’t watch the morning television news, and she didn’t want me to hear of the horror on my drive to work.  You see, I was almost 8 months pregnant with my first son at the time, and she was worried that I would be an emotional wreck in my car.  She was right. 

 

But, four weeks later, something happened that made it even more personal.  While in a synagogue women’s room during a Bar Mitzvah, I was stopped by another dinner dance attendee.  I thought she was going to compliment me on my gorgeous, yet humongous, peppermint green tent dress (I mean, formal maternity gown), but instead she sneered and said, and I quote, “so, how do you feel about bringing a child into the world at a horrible time like this?   How can you do it?  Jews in the U.S. are now in big trouble.  Mark my words. It’ll be like Israel soon.”  Aside from the heinous insensitivity and stupidity of her comments and questions (for one thing, my delivery date was one week later… you do the math), she voiced something that I had been suppressing since early September; namely, how do the events of 9/11 impact us as Jews?  After much thought (or half thought), I selfishly concluded that it probably helps that I’ve been somewhat suppressing my Jewish identity.  They (whoever the “they” is) couldn’t hurt me.

 

And, then, I became a mother.

 

During my son’s bris, I cried.  I cried and cried and couldn’t stop.  But, the tears were not just for his pain.  They were for mine.  The bris ceremony felt right and weird at the same time.  What was I hiding from?  What was wrong with practicing Judaism?  I wanted my son to know he was a Jew; to one day be proud he was a Jew. But, how could I teach him when I could not figure it out for myself? Me, the one who had lost faith.

 

And, then, three years later, I suddenly became extremely ill and gave birth six weeks early to my second son. 

 

After the delivery, two doctors informed me that my newborn son could not catch my as-yet undiagnosed virus.  In my febrile state, I took this as terrific news.  Hallelujah.  My body had somehow protected him in the womb from whatever was making me so ill.  Then, a third doctor turned my world upside down and explained that the “could not catch” phrase actually meant that if he did get sick, he would not survive.  

 

A social worker was sent to my hospital room.  She asked if I wanted any faith-based counseling; after all, isn’t it at times like these when most people turn toward religion?  I sharply responded: “Do you honestly think I can believe in my faith at a time like this?”  She sent a rabbi anyway, which made me furious, so I asked him to leave.  I was scared, angry, worried, and sick.  I did not need my already jumbled religious mind any more confused. 

 

But, after many more days of anguished worry and uncertainty, I made a deal with the God I used to believe in.  If the baby survived, I promised in a whisper, I would maybe, try to think about re-discovering my Jewish roots.  Maybe.

 

And, then, two weeks later, I held my baby for the first time, and we finally went home.

 

Was it a miracle, as I now sometimes joke?  Or, great medical care?  Or, just luck? I will never know.

 

And, then my sister became the writer she always dreamed she’d be.

 

She signed with a terrific young (Jewish) agent and a prestigious publishing house.  Wouldn’t you know it; her book is entitled “A Modern Jewish Mom’s Guide to Shabbat.”

 

I started to think that the world was conspiring to plunge me back into Judaism.

 

And, then my sister and I started a little business called Modern Mom, Inc. and a web site called ModernJewishMom.com.

 

And, then my uncle, the most amazing Cantor the world has known, and a man who is like a second father to me, became gravely ill.

 

And, now I am here. 

 

Some have said this essay is cathartic, and that is partially true.  I think I wrote it to help show people that it is okay to believe again.  It is okay to lose faith, knead it, question it, be mad at it and then find it again and believe in a whole new way.

 

I just ask that you take it slowly.

 

But now, you’ll have to excuse this brief conclusion.  I must stop writing. For the past several weeks, my family has been trying to celebrate Shabbat. It is now past 4 on a Friday afternoon, and instead of heading to the beach, I am off to the market to buy challah and grape juice.  Then it is time to go home and light the candles with my boys.

 

I wish you well.

 

 

< back to top